


Reflections

by tersa (alix)



Series: Dragon Age:Not Just Any Port in the Storm [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Canonical Character Death, Discussions of slavery, Dubious Consent, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Past Rape/Non-con, just plain angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alix/pseuds/tersa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Not long after Hawke reached Skyhold, Fenris turned up.</i>"</p><p>One little change, and Emrys Lavellan is forced to question his burgeoning relationship with a Tevinter aristocrat where slavery of elves was a matter of course, taken for granted, and dismissed away as trivial; Dorian Pavus can no longer dismiss the practice away with one of those former slaves right there, in Skyhold, wrenching his complacency out into the harsh light of scrutiny.</p><p>An AU 'around the edges' re-telling of some of the events of "Here Lies the Abyss" that picks up shortly after "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2842697/chapters/6376037">Strings</a>". By the end, most of the Inner Circle companions and a few extras will put in an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the popular 'DA2 LI comes to Skyhold' trope and in large part by "[Pointed Questions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2766158/comments/20880233)" by [lingering_nomad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad). I fell down a deep, deep rabbit hole that was not the direction of that fic, but I would have never thought to write this without it. _Ma serannas_.
> 
> \-----
> 
> The explicit rating is for one brief reference later in the fic. Otherwise, this is mostly Mature.
> 
> If you're looking for porn, sorry. :) Try one of my other fics--I suggest this one, "[The Taming of the Wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/works/242180)", as its (loosely) about this Hawke and Fenris.
> 
> \-----
> 
> A short explanation of the "Rape/non-con/dubcon" tags:
> 
> As they imply collectively: it's in the past. There's a warning up in the 'Notes' at the beginning for the chapter it comes up.
> 
> If this might trigger you--here's your warning that you may want to avoid reading this story.
> 
> \-----
> 
> After comments on Chapters 2 & 3, I wanted to add an additional CMA note here:
> 
> Due to the charged nature of the topic being addressed in the fic, I'd like to ask that if you do leave a negative comment (either for myself or other commenters), to try to be civil about it. I personally welcome concrit, but I'd prefer not to have the comment section turn into a flame war and would rather not have to delete comments because they fall into that category.
> 
> TIA. :)

Not long after Hawke reached Skyhold, Fenris turned up.

Rafe should have known it was going to happen. He’d been Champion, then Viscount, of Kirkwall long enough to know how quickly news spread, and the Champion turned Viscount of Kirkwall allying himself with the Inquisition was one of those pieces of news that spread more quickly than others.

It was also one of those pieces of news that would have Fenris marching up to the gates of Skyhold and demanding to see him.

“He says he knows you,” the nervous young guardsman said, shifting on his feet.

The kid couldn’t have been more than eighteen, Rafe thought, no older than Carver had been when he’d headed off to Ostagar and as equally unprepared to deal with his prickly lover. Rafe sighed to himself, put down his cards, and pushed himself out of his chair. “Sorry, sers, but I’ll have to resume this game some other time.”

Varric smirked. “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.” He hopped off the chair better suited for taller folk. “It’d be nice to see Broody again. Or at least be able to witness firsthand the epic confrontation.”

“We’re not like that anymore,” Rafe said drily as they crossed the training grounds to approach the main gate. “Haven’t you heard? We’re in _love_. He never leaves my side.”

Varric had the grace to look abashed. “I had to think quickly on my feet. I figure if I said that, then Cassandra wouldn’t send her Seekers out looking for Fenris separately from you and turn him up. Then, she really _would_ have found you. Even you wouldn’t have left Fenris in the Chantry’s hands like that.”

“I don’t know,” Rafe said, reaching the guardhouse. “It would depend on how irritating he was that day.”

Pushing open the door, Rafe took in the scene. Several guards stood on one side of the room, most on relaxed, quiet alert, while Fenris stood on the other, looking as unthreatening as a quillback sunning itself and twice as spiky. Despite how casual it seemed, knowing Fenris, he’d already figured out how to take out the entire room, and the guards wouldn’t have a chance.

Maker, Rafe had missed him.

Fenris’s gaze came around and locked on to Rafe when the door opened, and the shift in his demeanor communicated to Rafe that he felt the same. A ghost of a wry smile, a lift of his eyebrows, and he said, “There you are.”

It was Varric who responded, though. “Elf,” he said with a nod of greeting, to which Fenris replied in kind and said, “Dwarf,” before Varric said to the guards, “He’s with Hawke, I’ll vouch for him.”

Never openly demonstrative, it was telling when Fenris fell in close to Rafe’s side as the three of them made their way across the courtyard towards the main building of the Keep. “I thought you were with the Grey Wardens,” Fenris said in accusation.

“I thought you were going to wait for me to send you a message.”

“I thought you were going to send me a message when you were done, not run off to join the Inquisition.”

“I haven’t _joined_ the Inquisition,” Rafe said with indignation, “I’m just working with them. Alistair’s here, too.”

“Oh, so Alistair joined you, but not me?”

“Well, he _is_ a Grey Warden. And I’m with him. So there.”

Fenris shot Rafe a sour look. Rafe gave him a smug smile back. Varric broke in with, “I really have missed you both. The only one who’s as entertaining as you two are....oh,” he trailed off, face falling as he gave a meaningful glance to Rafe.

It took Rafe several puzzled seconds to decipher the look, but it coincided with the clatter of horses coming through the main gate and a sudden burst of activity around the yard. Pennons streamed above the heads of the outriders, the Inquisitor had returned from Halamshiral. Quickly, he put a hand to Fenris’s shoulder and tugged, trying to guide him away from the hubbub and into the main structure. “Come on, let’s get out of the way of all this. I’ll show you to the room.”

A bright, lively laugh burst over the bustle, drawing the eye to the dark-skinned man descending from the carriage wearing exotic looking robes Rafe had only seen once before.

“Magister,” came Fenris voice in deadly silence, before Rafe and Varric all but dragged him physically off.

* * *

Fenris stalked through the small room like the caged predator he was, energy fairly crackling around him. It was giving Rafe a headache.

“ _Venhedis_ , Hawke, he is a Tevinter magister!”

Rafe sighed. “Mage. He’s very clear on that topic.”

“Mage, magister, what difference does it make?” Fenris growled. “What are you doing working with him? We should leave.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

That earned Rafe a scowl. “Of course I did.”

“Then you’ll have to find a way to live with it,” Rafe said, patience fraying. Fenris had been pacing and ranting for the better part of a half an hour, and Rafe had reached his limit. “Ever since that mess at the Warden’s Prison, I’m tied up with Corypheus. The Inquisitor is thanks to that _thing_ on his hand. I’m a part of this. I can’t leave.”

“Since when has that stopped you before?” Fenris shot back.

The barb hit the mark and Rafe flinched, but it also angered him. “Never, but maybe it’s time it did.”

They glared at one another, Fenris near the window, Rafe sitting in the room’s only chair, until Fenris was the one to finally bend, growling, “Have you at least warned the Inquisitor?”

Crisis point past, Rafe relaxed a little, spreading his hands out in a helpless gesture. “About what? How _bad_ Corypheus is? I think he’s figured that out.”

“No, about the magister.”

“Mage.”

Fenris shot him an irritated look and repeated doggedly. “Have you?”

“No. I didn’t think it was my place. Besides, I’ve heard the talk.” Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “They’re together. Or, at least that’s the rumor,” he added at Fenris’s sudden glower. “Don’t look like that, this is no different than us.”

Fenris looked very much like he wanted to argue with Rafe, but he clamped his jaw shut and stared out the window for a time. Just as Rafe had decided to rise and go find Varric, because he couldn’t deal with the silence any longer, Fenris spoke again. “You are nothing like a magister. I would’ve never--“ He snapped his teeth shut, unable to continue.

Rafe did rise, then, crossing the floor to come up next to Fenris, to run a hand over his shining white hair and drop it down to cup Fenris’s cheek. “I know,” he said, his voice falling to a soft basso. Under his palm, Fenris’s muscles worked, betraying his anguish, and it was Rafe’s turn to relent. “If you’re so worried about it, _you_ should talk to him.”


	2. Emrys

The lanky elf standing in the main hall near the doorway to Josephine’s office was a stranger to Emrys Lavellan. More, he _glowed_. Looking at him was like looking into a Fade rift, the swirling lines of magic drawing him down, down, down, like a leaf caught in one of the rare river whirlpools and equally threatening to drown him.

With an effort, Emrys jerked his gaze away, breathing hard at the effort. He knew those silvery tattoos were not _vallaslin_.

They were lyrium.

And he knew who this was.

“Fenris,” he said, acknowledging him.

“And you must be the Inquisitor,” Fenris said. There was something feral in him that put Emrys’s hackles up. “I wish to speak to you.” He threw a glance towards the two doors, then back to Emrys. “In private.”

Emrys turned wary. “What about?”

“The Tevinter.”

Emrys’s eyes narrowed. He’d read _The Way of the Champion_ , and Varric had described Fenris’s loathing of his homeland and the mages. Even if he hadn’t, venom dripped from the words. He thought of Dorian, his quick smile, his quicker wit, the way his hands moved along Emrys’s back when they kissed, of the tender, vulnerable side Emrys had seen...his own anger flared. “I can’t really think of anything we’d have to talk about on that topic. _Era seranna ma_ ,” he said and made to go past him.

Fenris stepped in his path and brought Emrys up short. Reflexively, he reached out to the Fade and gathered up tendrils of magic and held them, but Fenris made no further threats, only giving Emrys a direct look. “You don’t know what it’s really like to be an elf in Tevinter. I do.”

“We’re not in Tevinter,” Emrys replied coldly.

“No, but your pet magister was,” Fenris retorted, ice entering his voice as well. “You harbor a viper in your aerie.”

“And that’s none of your business.”

“It is as long as Hawke is here,” Fenris replied, lip curling in a sneer. “He was betrayed once by someone he thought friend. I won’t see him be hurt again because of your misplaced trust.”

“Then Hawke can leave. I do not hold him here.”

Fenris made a sound of frustration. “He will not, not as long as Corypheus threatens the Grey Wardens. But you.” He took a step closer, causing Emrys to take a step back to maintain their distance. Recognition flickered through Fenris’s expression, and his tone grew less harsh. “You I can at least warn.”

Something tugged at Emrys at that. Curiosity, despite himself. Doubt. “ _All knowledge is useful_ ”, Morrigan had told him on the way back from the Winter Palace, and Fenris had a perspective of Dorian’s homeland that Dorian himself could never have--and one closer to what Emrys would. Cautiously, he nodded. “Come with me to my quarters. It’s the best place for privacy.”

He led, Fenris followed, and at entering the expansive room, Fenris snorted. “Impressive. I would not have thought a Dalish elf would be comfortable in such gilded opulence. Perhaps I was mistaken,” he said with a hint of derision.

Emrys ignored that, irritation making him blunt. “What did you want to warn me of.”

Equally to the point, Fenris asked, “Do you understand what it’s like to be a slave in the Tevinter Empire?”

“No. But I don’t see how that applies.” Even as he said the words, Emrys knew them to be a lie. He remembered the hushed whispers in the alienage he grew up in, of elves that disappeared one day and were never heard from again, how he’d been taught to always be wary of humans in the alienage, especially at night. He hadn’t thought about that for years, not since he’d run away and found the Dalish when his magic had manifested, but he remembered now. All that cold fear came back in a rush.

“Then you don’t understand what it is to be a non-person,” Fenris said with a sneering curl to his lip. “Little more than walking and talking furniture or, worse, toys.”

“I grew up in an alienage,” Emrys said hotly, stung. “I know how that feels.” He suspected where this was going, _knew_ where this was going, and wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

But Fenris pressed on, unrelenting. “Do you? Really?” he said scornfully. “They live in squalor, scrabbling for mean lives, but they are free. You do not understand being _owned_ , to have no say in your life, where you sleep, when you eat, what you eat, who you fuck...”

Emrys felt the word like a blow, the crudity unexpected, but also hitting to close to home. “What’s your point?” he asked harshly.

A mirthless laugh huffed out. “Every detail of your life is controlled. And by whom? The magisters.” Fenris snarled the word. “They play their petty games, use their blood magic, make deals with demons, and squashing everything below them in their climb to more and greater power.”

“Why are you telling me this? That’s Tevinter, not here.”

Fenris’s smile was more a baring of his teeth. “The Tevinter in your midst. This is the world he came from. They can smile and offer bread with one hand, hiding poison in the other. They _use_. He’s using you.”

“No, he’s not,” Emrys retorted hotly. _He loves me_ , but he didn’t say that aloud.

Maybe some of that showed in his expression, because Fenris went on to say, “Ask yourself this: in a country where one of his kind cannot be with men of his social station, which men would he then be with?” The smirk he gave Emrys was cruel. “They lay with slaves. With elves. Because it wouldn’t be _seemly_ to lay with one of their own. And the slaves have no say in it.” Acid etched his words into Emrys’s mind. “They’re forced to whatever perverted desires the magisters want to do with them.”

“ _Vishante kaffas_ ,” Emrys snapped, incensed, but also shaken deeply by the implication. “Get out of here.”

Fenris instead took a step forward. “You must list--”

But Emrys had had enough, and at the perceived threat, he reached over his head to wrap his hand around his staff, throwing the other arm out in a sweeping gesture that sent a wave of force out in an arc before him. Papers scattered, the small table next to the lounge toppled over, and, most importantly, Fenris flew through the air to crash back to the floor meters beyond where he started. Fury flushed his face, and, for a moment, Emrys was sure Fenris was going to launch himself at him.

But he didn’t, merely picking himself up off the floor. “Put him aside, before he destroys everything,” he said, before turning to stalk out.

Emrys moved to the balcony, seething. His fingertips dug into the stone railing, the pressure a welcome distraction. He focused on the pain from that, the anger at Fenris--how _dare_ he speak so familiarly with him--because he didn’t want to think about what he’d said.

Footsteps fell on the stairs behind him, and he whirled to see Dorian reaching the top riser to enter the room. “There was a bit of commotion downstairs--something about our newest guest storming out of your room, I came to see if everything was okay. Or,” he smirked rogueishly, “if I should have been invited.”

The tone and the words were more than Emrys could bear. “Get out,” he snapped. “I need to be alone.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, startled, that turned to hurt covered swiftly with a bitter smile. He swept a deep, mocking bow, and said acidly, “Of course, Inquisitor. _So_ sorry to trouble you.” He turned on his heel and left.

Guilt stabbed through Emrys for the hurt, there and gone as the anger roiled up again and smothered it.

Damn him. _Damn him_.

* * *

Late afternoon found Emrys on the battlements high above where Cullen supervised the training of the Inquisition’s forces, able to see the whole of the yard but unable to hear much beyond the din and clash. Hawke, Fenris, Alistair, and Varric stood with him, chatting, and Emrys felt a pang of jealousy seeing how easily they did so. There was familiarity there, a camradrie, especially between Varric and Hawke, that Emrys envied. He looked past them to where Fenris stood with the two warriors, pointing and making some comment at the recruits that caused Cullen to bark some order out.

“It hurts to look at him.” Cole’s voice came from very near Emrys, and Emrys looked sharply to the side to find Cole seated with his legs dangling over the edge of the merlon next to the crenel Emrys watched through. “The Shining Man. The Fade is in him, he’s so bright. It makes me remember.”

Emrys leaned his forearms on the low wall of the crenel to get a better look, a petty thought seizing him. “What else do you see?”

Cole’s heels drummed the stone idly. “It causes him pain, but I can’t fix that. Your mother died a free woman. She was very proud of what you did for you and your sister.”

Something about the way Cole said it mingled with the conversation earlier and jarred Emrys. Like he could see a shadowy shape of what lay underneath the words although he couldn’t fully understand it; a puzzle he wanted to figure out.

But Cole was continuing on with his reading. “The darkspawn man has his own darkness, a thing he did which should not have been. It isn’t your fault, she asked you to do it and you were scared.”

 _So many secrets_ , Emrys thought, then looked at the third newcomer in the group. “What of Hawke?”

“So many hurts,” Cole said, voice sad. “Tiny wounds like pinpricks, blood trickling, too many to heal. So many mages dead, to save myself, and for what? Bethany, Mother, Ketojen, Seamus, red lyrium, Corypheus, Kirkwall, a knife in the back of the man I should have saved. He hurts too much, Inquisitor. I cannot help him. Making him forget would make him not him.” He tore his gaze away with an anguished cry. “Don’t make me look at him.”

“I’m sorry, Cole,” Emrys said, reaching a hand out to touch and soothe the spirit but then stopping, uncertain of the gesture, and letting his hand curl around the edge of the merlon instead. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“He loves you.” Cole’s look was forthright, childlike in its utter certainty. “I can feel the Shining Man’s words in you, poison, but if you go to him, he will forgive you.”

Emrys’s breath caught, unprepared to have Cole’s insights turned on him, to be laid bare in just a few words. The audacity of it shocked him, and yet, even as he prepared to rail at the affront, he remembered how easily he was willing to use that power to his advantage just moments before. Shame scalded his cheeks, and he began to pull away.

“I said the wrong thing,” Cole said in dismay. “Here, let me try again--”

“No!” Emrys said, recoiling, then less sharply, “No. I don’t want to forget.” He paused, running over his impulse, then went with it. “This is a pain I need.”

Cole blinked at him, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s okay,” Emrys said slowly, mind sorting through his reactions even as he started to pull away. “I do.”

* * *

He found Dorian where he usually did, in the small study area in the tower claimed by Leliana for her ravens and the mages for their quarters, away from the other Inquisition forces. Dorian glanced up from the leather-bound book open across the leg casually propped up at the ankle by the other, then dropped his eyes back to the pages. When Emrys stopped next to his chair, Dorian said sardonically, “So _now_ you want to see me? I’m in the middle of this, why don’t you come back later.”

“Dorian, I--” Emrys stopped when Dorian’s gaze came up again, this time fixing on him. He was angry, and Emrys felt the full brunt of it in the power of the look Dorian leveled. Emrys was suddenly acutely aware of the attention they were drawing, looking around to see other eyes swiftly averted as his swept over them, then looked back to Dorian. “Can we go somewhere else? I’d like to talk.”

“ _Just_ talk?” His usual question held scorn in it, but he clapped the book shut with a sound that echoed in the tower and rose to his feet. “We can go to my quarters.”

For as small as Dorian’s room actually was, it was richly appointed. Emrys had no understanding of _shemlen_ tastes, but he could grasp the aesthetics of the velvet, silk, and polished metal that went into how Dorian had decorated it. Dorian didn’t seat himself, either on the bed or the cushioned stool, nor offered a seat to Emrys, remaining standing when he turned to face Emrys, hands on his hips. “So what did you want to talk about.”

“I’m sorry for earlier.”

A few seconds passed then Dorian asked, “Is that it?”

Dare he... Emrys made a decision and straightened to his full height. “Did you sleep with the elven slaves?”

Dorian might not have looked more shocked than if Emrys had slapped him. Then he hissed. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”

“Did you?”

He began pacing--no, prowling--the small room, arms moving expansively as he spoke. “Why does it matter? That was a long time ago and I’m not there anymore. I’m with you, or I thought I was with you. Is this the end? Is this where you decide to be done with me and move on?”

“ _Did_ you?”

Dorian stopped, turning his head to look at Emrys down the length of his shoulder. “ _Fasta vass_ , Emrys, yes, I did. It was what was done.”

It was Emrys’s turn to turn away, looking without seeing the vivid, abstract painting that graced one of the rough stone walls. He tasted the bitter disappointment at the back of his throat. Behind him, Dorian shifted, closing to within a meter or so behind Emrys’s right elbow, but then stopping there. His voice was soft and sad when he asked, “If you didn’t want to hear the answer, why did you ask?”

“I was hoping you’d say no,” Emrys replied, equally soft. He turned to face Dorian then, pain contorting his face. “Did you ever once consider that they could not?”

Dorian inhaled sharply, stiffening at the question. He shifted his gaze away. “No. But you have to understand,” he started, voice turning reasonable. “It’s-- _was_ \--a mark of favor. I never mistreated anyone, and I tried to make them enjoy it, too.”

Emrys’s lip curled. “Blood magic is done, too, but you didn’t do _that_. Why was this different?”

A frustrated noise escaped Dorian. “Because...it just was!”

Emrys could see the knowledge had left their mark and wanted to believe it was for the better. But Fenris’s words floated up, angry green eyes and dizzying vortex of power blazing in memory. _They can smile and offer bread with one hand, hiding poison in the other. They_ use. _He’s using you._

Closing his eyes, Emrys said curtly, “I need time to think.” He whirled and left the room, leaving Dorian standing there.


	3. Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the chapter that earned both the Explicit and non/dub-con tags. Caveat emptor.
> 
> Also wanted to give a shout out to the unnamed Guest who commented last week--that was an example of fantastic concrit and I really appreciated it. It made me have to think very hard about this chapter and influenced the revision process. IMO, that feedback made this a much better chapter than was originally written. Thank you.

Dorian realized when his eyes alighted on a particular turn of phrase for the eighth time that he wasn’t actually _reading_ the book and snapped it shut to look out the window next to his chair. The light coming through it had turned a rosy shade he’d only seen this high in the mountains, in Skyhold, and would’ve been beautiful if he’d been in any mood to appreciate it.

He didn’t like dwelling, but he couldn’t help it, his mind turning to the ugly scene with Emrys earlier.

It wasn’t as if he’d ever hid the fact that his family had owned slaves and that elven slaves were common in Tevinter. Emrys had, in fact, seemed to be quite aware of the practice in a conversation they’d had at Haven that Dorian vividly recalled...but, thinking about it with a frown, he also remembered how upset Emrys had seemed during it as well.

He sighed and left the tower library for a bit of solace.

His fingers tapped the countertop of the Herald’s Rest waiting for the brandy he’d ordered in the special, precious glass he’d bought for it in Val Royeaux--none of this common wooden or clay mug to sully the experience. A burst of laughter interrupted his fidgeting, and he glanced over to see The Iron Bull and his Chargers gathered around a table. They all had the look of warriors fresh off the practice field, and Dorian wrinkled his nose in distaste even though he couldn’t smell them. Yet. Bull looked at him, as if sensing the scrutiny, and Dorian quickly looked away, trying to maintain his solitude.

He heard the heavy footsteps of qunari boots across the floor boards and Bull’s huge, rank mass leaned on bar beside Dorian. He signaled to the barkeep’s assistant, three fingers then turned to look at Dorian.

Dorian sighed again. “What is it?”

“You and Boss are on the outs.”

Dorian shot Bull a scathing look. “How in the--no, nevermind, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. But it’s none of your business.”

Bull’s chuckle rumbled like the one time avalanches near Haven. “Sure it is. It affects the rest of us.” The assistant brought three well-worn mugs full of...Dorian thought it was ale, although he couldn’t be sure. Bull took a long draught off one, smacking his lips and sighing with satisfaction as he brought the mug back to the bar top. “Is it that Tevinter elf? Because I’m pretty sure he’s with Hawke.”

“ _What?_ ” Dorian asked, taken completely off-guard by this new aspect of the latest arrival.

Bull gave him an assessing look, before cracking a smile. “Ahh. You didn’t know about that. Interesting. Nevermind, then.” He pushed off the bar and gathered all three mugs easily in his huge hand. “Enjoy your drink.”

The barkeep _finally_ brought Dorian’s brandy, and he, briefly, considered changing his mind and refusing it. Instead he snatched it up and strode out of the tavern, searching.

He found what he was looking for in the practice yard. With the sun close to setting, the main bulk of the Inquisition forces had cleared out but, here and there, men and women clumped in pairs or trios or groups continued to spar or just chatted, many of them gathered to simply watch a white haired elf wielding a greatsword facing off against Commander Cullen. Dorian had no interest or experience in swordmanship so couldn’t even guess to either’s skill level or how the bout was going, but the speed at which attack, feint, parry, and ripostes came impressed him. The fading sunlight briefly illuminated the elf’s face, reflecting back the flash of silver tattoos, and Dorian’s throat constricted.

He was eighteen again, just coming to terms with his...tastes, his father still optimistically hoping they were just a phase he would grow out of, and catching sight of Danarius’s pet wolf from across the sitting room. With aspirations his son would find the ambition to rise to Archon, Halward Pavus had procured this invitation to Danarius’s intimate soiree, and Dorian himself had so charmed Magister Danarius that he was granted his choice of Daniarus’s slaves as a sign of favor.

Fascinated by the lyrium tattoos and the barely restrained wildness, he’d chosen the wolf.

 _Fenris_.

He should have known. _Known_. He’d read Varric’s _The Way of the Champion_ to and from Val Royeaux, after Hawke’s arrival, caught up in the romantic tale Varric wove as if it was all make believe and fairy tale, hardly able to comprehend that the Fenris of that story was truly the slave he’d lain with that night. But Hawke was here, at Skyhold, and those tattoos were unmistakable.

Everyone among the Altus had heard of Danarius’s experiments to produce him. He was a curiosity, exotic. Dorian was as entranced with him as any other, more so for the desire to possess him even if for the one night. He moved with the deadly grace of a predator, and that danger, that _temptation_ enflamed him.

_Did you ever once consider that they could not?_ Emrys’s pained question cut across his rosy memories, and he saw the wolf again, still with the same deadly grace, still dangerous, but older, just as he was.

Cullen and Fenris drew apart, both grinning fiercely. Out of the crowd, Hawke emerged, smiling wryly. He said something, too far away for Dorian to make out, but Fenris turned and approached the man. Something in their manner spoke to Dorian, a flash of insight as he saw the ease with which they interacted. Without even touching, Dorian recognized their intimacy, the way Fenris was bound to Hawke by jesses that Danarius, for all his power and prowess, had never been able to control. He saw their attachment, and he saw Fenris _wanting_ to be there. All that, despite Hawke being a mage.

Memories of that erotically pleasurable but dimly lit night bubbled up, illuminated by the sudden, harsh light of awareness. The careful way Dorian had phrased the request to Danarius, so proud of himself for the equal parts charm and flattery. The anticipation while standing in the room another slave had led him to, waiting. That moment when the door had opened and Fenris had walked in boldly, had met Dorian’s eyes, defiance unlike any elf Dorian had seen before. He’d come in alone, no one outside escorting him there, hadn’t he? Running his hands over Fenris’s naked back and feeling the lyrium sing against his palms, Fenris’s skin quivering, accepting it. He’d taken it as desire. Fenris’s mouth working on his manhood, the contrast of Dorian’s dark hands buried in that pure white hair, deep-throated moans vibrating into him. Could it have been something else? Had he been wrong?

Doubt washed through him in a wave of cold nausea.

“Are you alright, Dorian? You look ill.”

Cassandra’s question yanked Dorian out of the past and into the present, where he discovered his hand on the glass was trembling. Laughing breathily, he took two gulps, draining it, then laid it very carefully aside both to keep from breaking it and to mask how shaken he was. “Never better,” he lied, his eyes straying of their own accord back to where Cullen had joined Fenris and Hawke, looking at ease with, Dorian realized with a start, old acquaintances, or perhaps even friends, from Kirkwall.

“Ahh,” she drawled out in understanding, following his gaze. “That must be Fenris. I had heard he had followed Hawke.” She made a mildly disgusted sound. “A year, we looked for him and Hawke, and both of them simply walk up to our door and knock.”

Across the field, Fenris’s gaze swept past then came back to pause on Dorian and Cassandra. The moment of lightness evaporated, replaced by a scowl and such a look of hatred that Dorian felt it like a physical clout. Cullen and Hawke’s attentions followed and, upon lighting on Dorian, Dorian saw Hawke’s expression twist into a resigned moue. Fenris said something curt to them then turned on his heel and stalked off.

“Varric did say how much Fenris hated Tevinter mages,” Cassandra said in measured words, casting a look at Dorian.

The brandy churning sourly in Dorian’s belly. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I am feeling a little under the weather.”

* * *

By the time Emrys sought him out in his library refuge, full dark had fallen and Dorian was feeling a little less sick. In a fit of masochism disguised as research, he was reading a history of Tevinter penned by an Orlesian scholar littered with scathing remarks about the practice of slavery. For as much as the author missed the subtleties of events, entertaining Dorian with inner mockery, his commentary on the economic underpinings of the Empire jabbed at Dorian uncomfortably. It was a relief to look up from it, at least until he took in Emrys demeanor, a closed off reserve he hadn’t seen since first joining the Inquisition at Haven.

“I just thought I would let you know we’re heading to the Western Approach tomorrow morning, so you can be ready. Alistair, Hawke, and Fenris and the scouts left to go on ahead.”

“This late?” Dorian asked in surprise.

Emrys’s response seemed measured. “They said they wanted to get a head start and make some ground tonight.”

“Unless they trip and fall face first on it,” Dorian quipped, although bitterness underlay the attempt at humor. The timing seemed suspicious, and Emrys’s distance did nothing to reassure them. Better to leave him an out than to be rejected. “If you’d rather me not go, I’ll understand.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Emrys said, and Dorian noticed how he didn’t address the offer.

It was only after he heard Emrys’s footsteps leave the stairs to the floor below that Dorian realized he also hadn’t asked for his usual kiss.

* * *

Dorian looked around in disgust at the ramshackle ruins of the tower in the Western Approach in the aftermath of interrupting the Grey Wardens’ ritual. It wasn’t only the bodies that littered the ruins, blood and gore staining the dun colored bricks underfoot, or the incessant and inescapable sand blowing in his face and working into his robes like fine grit. It was also uncovering that what the Inquisition was investigating was a plot by Corypheus through agents of the Tevinter Venatori cult. Preying on their desperation, he was binding the Grey Warden mages to his will through this Lord Erimond’s suggestions that blood magic rituals and demons were the solution.

Because that _always_ worked.

Footsteps pounded up the causeway and Dorian heard the others shifting on the cobbles while he picked his way through the corpses until he reached the spot where Erimond had last been seen. Only bootprints remained, melting away in the sand under the effect of the wind. He’d escaped. Dorian cursed under his breath and turned back to rejoin the others.

Emrys, Hawke, and Alistair appeared to be having a heated discussion, but Fenris, looking murderous, went past them to find Dorian approaching and raised his voice. “With blood magic and human sacrifice.” Hate filled his voice.

“They made a mistake,” Alistair said defensively, “but they thought it was necessary.”

“All blood mages do,” Fenris retorted. Then he pulled the greatsword from his back and began walking around Hawke, gaze fixed on Dorian. “Made sure your friend escaped?”

Fenris hadn’t given a hint in the brief face to face encounter with him outside the ruins of remembering Dorian from their past encounter in Tevinter, but the implication felt personal. Coming from _this person_ , not a member of the Inquisition, not Alistair, an actual Grey Warden, or Hawke, who was bound up with Corypheus’s escape, but the source of all the turmoil stirred up since arriving at Skyhold, caused something in Dorian to snap. “Yes, I was secretly in cahoots with the Venatori blood mage working with Corypheus and facilitated his escape from the Inquisition’s clutches. Curse me and my sudden but inevitable betrayal.”

The sarcasm went right over Fenris’s head, or maybe, Dorian thought, he just didn’t have a sense of humor. Light flared from the lyrium tattoos, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Fenris began to lunge. Hawke grabbed at Fenris, hampering his approach. Dorian reacted instinctively to the threat and swung his staff before him, purple mist coalescing around it as he prepared a spell. Emrys’s staff was also out, lightning crackling up and down the wood. Blackwall put up his sword and shield, at the ready, while Alistair moved back, staying out of the fray.

It was The Iron Bull who stepped between the two sides, axe slung across his back and over one shoulder. His casual pose froze everyone in place, that and his sheer size drawing all eyes to him. He put his back to Dorian, looking towards Hawke and Fenris, who Dorian could see only partially around Bull’s enormous bulk.

“I know of you, elf,” Bull said breezily, at ease despite the tension around him on the verge of exploding. “Fenris. _Leto_.” He said the name with such a stress to give it significance, and Dorian saw Fenris startle at it. “The Tevinter slave who ran with the Fog Warriors until his master came calling.” A feral growl rose up from Fenris then, and Hawke’s grip tightened. Bull didn’t even pause. “You were almost a damn legend among the qunari there. I always wished I’d run into you. See if you were as good as the stories said.” He began running a finger back and forth idly across the haft of his axe, his voice shifting barely perceptibly but suddenly filled with menace. “Still do.”

With a wrench, Hawke hauled Fenris back, away from Bull and the others. Fenris reluctantly let his sword drop a few inches out of the poised stance and allowed Hawke to continue pulling him further away, back down the causeway but still within sight of the group. Dorian remembered to breathe then, letting the staff sag before sheathing it on his back. Alistair’s armored feet screeched on the sandy flagstones as he shifted his position, and the sound seemed to shatter the last of the strain. Emrys, too, returned his staff to its holster, and Blackwall his sword. All but Iron Bull, who continued to stand on guard as immovable as a mountain.

Dorian stepped around him, openly watching the animated conversation between Hawke and Fenris although they were too far away to hear. Fenris looked angry, movements taut, gestures jerky, and scowled blackly. Hawke looked...resigned was the word that came to Dorian’s mind. Not relaxed, maybe wary, but he was implacable in the face of Fenris’s vehemence. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian noticed Alistair move in the direction Erimond disappeared, but didn’t turn away from watching Hawke and Fenris.

Fenris went still, scowl melting into a look of misery, and Hawke’s hands came up to cup Fenris’s face. Their foreheads touched, and Dorian finally looked away, feeling uncomfortable and unaccountably saddened by the intimate, loving gesture and the fact that they seemed to have no concern as to who saw them do it. As his head turned, he caught Emrys looking at him before he, too, turned away, as if unable to bear to meet his gaze.

Sand crunched, and Dorian looked back to find Hawke rejoining the group. “Everyone has a story to tell themselves to justify bad decisions, and it never matters,” he said. “In the end, you are always alone with your actions.”

Dorian wondered what Hawke meant by that, but his thinking was interrupted by Alistair jogging back. "I may know where the Wardens are. Erimond fled that way." He pointed. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress in that direction. Adamant.”

“I guess they don’t want to summon a demon army out in public,” Emrys muttered.

Hawke spoke up. “Alistair and I will scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there. We’ll meet you back at Skyhold.” Without waiting, he turned on his heel and began to walk in the direction Alistair had indicated and, Alistair, with a ‘what are you going to do?’ look to Emrys accompanied by a helpless shrug, made to follow him.

Fenris was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Curse me and my sudden but inevitable betrayal.” -- Obvious "Firefly" paraphrase is obvious. I wanted to give credit where credit was due.


	4. Dorian

The history book lay open on Dorian’s leg once more, illuminated by the shaft of sunlight that pierced the window. Really, he thought, he should give it up as terrible drivel, but a morbid curiosity seemed to have seized him. He kept reading. Having reached the point where Archon Vitus the Second had outlawed slavery, the author applauded Vitus’s courageous action and vilified the “heartless cowards” who had arranged for his assassination shortly after the decree. Dorian remembered his own lessons about it, how the Archon had been a short-sighted fool willing to bring Tevinter to ruin bowing to pressures from foreign rulers above the good of his people.

Dorian closed the book, letting it rest in his lap while he brought a hand up to rub his chin thoughtfully, the elbow resting on the arm of the comfortable chair, and stared out the window to the bright blue sky beyond. Here he was, a Tevinter mage working with an Inquisition founded by the order of a heretical Divine because he looked at his country and the path they were following--blood magic, the Venatori--and was willing to take a stand and oppose the corruption in the Empire...but not slavery. Slavery wasn’t even something he’d _questioned_ until he’d come south, just accepted it as part of the fabric of life. Like his magic.

Perturbed and in need of knowledgeable answers, he set the book aside and went out across the wall walk to Cullen’s office.

Dorian found the Commander at his desk writing something on parchment. More parchment stacked in tall piles on each corner, smaller piles between and abutting them. Cullen looked up at the sound of the door opening, eyes widening with surprise, but an elf in an Inquisition surcoat slipped around Dorian from the doorway and drew his attention away. For one brief moment, annoyance flared through Dorian at the elf’s overt discourtesy--but he caught himself, realizing most of his anger stemmed from the reflexive expectation that _his_ presence should take precedence. It was a damning epiphany, one that both discomfited and angered him further.

When Cullen finished his business with the courier, he returned his attention to his other guest. “Dorian, I’m sorry, things have been hectic with preparations for the siege. Did I forget a promise to play chess?”

Shaking his head, Dorian approached the desk. “As if you’d forget a promise like that,” Dorian said in a flirtatious voice, out of habit. “No, something has been troubling me, and I wished to speak of it with you.”

Cullen turned serious. “Something to do with the siege? Or Corpyheus?”

With tiny wince, Dorian said, “Nothing so immediate. But you might have a perspective on the issue that I lack.”

Glancing at the window, Cullen rose from his chair a stretched. “I suppose I could spare a little time. Come,” he said, adding a beckoning gesture towards the other door. “I could use the fresh air.”

Out on the wall walk above the main gate, Cullen paused to inhale deeply, closing his eyes as he did so then let it out in a sigh. Dorian saw some of the tension in him ebb, although not wholly. The sounds of preparation coming from the yard were too noticeable, siege engines being prepared. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“Ferelden,” Dorian said. “You grew up there, yes?”

A faint smile curled up one corner of Cullen’s mouth. “Yes, I did.” Curiosity mingled with a trace of impatience in his expression, but he said nothing further.

“Ferelden has been without slavery since the time of Andraste,” Dorian continued. At that, Cullen subtly stiffened. “How does that work?”

Irritation replaced the curiosity in Cullen’s demeanor. “ _That_ is a question out of no where.” His eyes narrowed as he considered his response. “I spent most of my adult life in the Order, so I only remember a little about life outside of it. But everyone is free. What else is there to know?”

Dorian was succinct. “Who does the shit jobs?”

Again, Cullen stiffened in affront. “People paid for their time and labor. The jobs still have to be done.”

“Yes, of course,” Dorian said, warming up to the discussion. He began pacing as he thought. “But a lot of those people are elves, correct? Or, not many elves have jobs beyond doing menial tasks and shit jobs.”

“A good many of them are elves, yes,” Cullen said, beginning to shift uneasily. “But there are humans who do them as well.”

“So there are human menials,” Dorian noted. “And what are their living conditions?”

“They have houses in the cities and villages, as far as I know.”

Dorian lifted an eyebrow. “And the elves all live in alienages? Or are they allowed to live amongst the human hovels.”

“Mostly the alienages,” Cullen admitted reluctantly.

“Which,” Dorian said with a note of satisfaction, “from what I can tell reading about them, are utter shit holes. So, they’re still forced to do the worst labor _and_ live in filthy destitution. How is this better for them?”

Irritation blossomed into the subtle burn of anger, and Cullen’s jaw set. “They’re free. Free to find new employers, free to find new tasks, free to move somewhere else, if they so choose.”

“Where they can continue to live and sleep horribly. What a fantastic opportunity,” Dorian said. “And then there are the Circles and the mages. They are also proscribed, this time by the Templars as their masters, as to where they can live, what they can and can’t do, held always in check by blood magic held in the templars’ hands.” At Cullen’s start of protest, Dorian gave him a direct look. “Please, _tell_ me that’s not what it is. I suspect you’d be lying. I don’t see how that’s very much different than how things are done with slaves in Tevinter.”

Cullen glowered thunderously, but he held his temper. A bite was in his voice, though, as he said, “This conversation is over. For the sake of our chess games, I’m willing to forget the implied insult as the stress of the upcoming battle. Which I have work I need to attend to to prepare for it. If you would like to discuss this further, once the immediate threat has passed, I may entertain it if you re-couch that opinion to be less offensive. Good day, Dorian,” he finished stiffly and strode swiftly back through the door of his office, closing it with enough force to emphasize how upset Dorian had made him.

Dorian looked at the door and sighed. Cullen _was_ the closest thing to a friend he had here in the south, other than Emrys, and once again, he’d succeeded in pushing someone away. Worse, he now faced the decision of either entering Cullen’s domain in order to take the shorter path back to the tower, or go the long way through the Herald’s Rest to avoid that. Consolation was he could grab a glass of brandy on the way through. That improved his mood somewhat.

Returning to the library, determined to do some lighter reading than horribly skewed history, possibly Varric’s “Swords and Shields” now that he was working on a new chapter, he caught sight of Grand Enchanter Fiona--or he supposed ‘former Grand Enchanter’, as he’d overheard her tell Emrys one afternoon, although given how often the southern mages continued to defer to her, she still seemed to wear the invisible mantle of that title--writing at one of the desks. He altered his path and headed towards her.

She looked up from her parchment at the proximity and focused her piercing gaze on Dorian. “May I help you?”

“Actually, you might,” Dorian said with an expansive gesture, ending with a flourish that indicated the other seat at the table. “If I may?” After a nod of assent, he seated himself, lounging casually on one arm. “You don’t have the same facial tattoos of our dear Inquisitor, which I’m given to understand is an affectation of his tribe of elves. I’m assuming, then, you are one of the elves born instead in one of the cities or villages. I was hoping I might ask you some questions about growing up in an Alienage.”

For the second time today, Dorian watched someone stiffen at his bold question, but Fiona’s expression had none of the cornered animal of Cullen. Instead, he got the distinct impression of a cat humoring another cat crossing its territory before it tore the other’s face off. “Ask,” is all she said.

Given her reaction, he proceeded with more caution than was his wont. “I was just speaking to our illustrious Commander about the lack of slavery in the south, and he indicated that life in an Alienage or a Tower before your Conclave was better than being a slave. I’ve heard life in both places, however, were very harsh. I realize you might have a perspective even Cullen cannot know.”

A mirthless smile curled up the corners of Fiona’s mouth and her gaze turned to steel. “I was also a slave once, and I will tell you now, Tevinter--I would rather _die_ than be that again.”

It was Dorian’s turn to be shocked, feeling his righteous footing crumble to shifting sand. Mentally, he scrambled to recover his equilibrium. “I did not know,” he said, adding a hint of forced contrition to his voice in an attempt to placate her.

“You would not,” she agreed bluntly. “I was raped. I was beaten. And only because my magic manifested and I killed Count Dorian did I escape that life.” Dorian startled again, and Fiona bared her teeth. “Do not think I don’t recognize the irony. So, yes, I have a perspective that Commander Cullen would not, being both human and a templar.”

Shaken, Dorian considered making a graceful withdrawal, but Fiona had fixed an unflinching stare at him--not dismissal, but as if waiting to see if he was going to continue. Deciding to take it as such, he asked, “Was life in the Circle that much better?”

Fiona laughed, a harsh, joyless sound. “By far.”

“But you were still all but imprisoned,” Dorian risked.

“And yet there was still more freedom to be had in a Tower, for all the Templars were there. We voted and won our independence, did we not?” Her gaze turned hard once more. “Would slaves be able to do the same?”

Dorian gulped at the intensity of her look. She made his mother seem the relative hardness of silk. Rather than answer her question, he asked another. “And what of your arrangement with Alexius?”

She sniffed derisively. “No longer in effect. But there was also an important component to it, when we agreed--we _chose_ to agree to the terms and there was a time in which it would end. We were free to make such a decision--do your slaves?”

“Ah, no,” he finally conceded, squirming inside under the weight of her attention. It was time to escape it. “Thank you for your time, Grand Enchanter. Your insight has been...illuminating.”

Dipping her chin in grave acknowledgement, he still felt her eyes staring holes in his back as he turned to leave not only her presence, but the tower entirely. Even his usual nook didn’t seem far enough away from her at this time, and he hastened out to...he hadn’t been sure where he was going, but he found his feet taking him to the small walled garden off the main hall. As usual, there were people milling about: the few people employed as gardeners, Mother Giselle, who gave him a curious look but then returned to her conversation with a postulant, and Morrigan and her son, doing some lesson, he guessed, given the magic suspended in the air between her hands. Normally, he might have been curious and watched, but he turned away, seating himself on one of the benches and feeling the absorbed warmth flow up from the stone.

Unbidden, an image of Emrys rose up, the lean frame, the wide elven eyes, and he tried to imagine him in Tevinter. There was an untamed quality to him, that even though he lived here, in Skyhold, within stone walls and slate roofs, he was still only one step away from the deep wild places Dorian had heard the Dalish inhabited in the south. Dorian remembered how Emrys had looked when they’d traveled to the Emerald Graves, the look of yearning mingled with deep sadness at the elven ruins thick in the green twilight of the forest, and how... _natural_ he seemed to become there. Val Royeaux and Halamshiral had put him on edge, as if the buildings and people were a cage, and he on the verge of being trapped by them.

Dorian’s people would never accept Emrys as an equal. Elves were slaves or, at best, liberati. He might be admitted to a Circle--with his prodigious magical talent, they would be fools not to accept him--but it would break him. Emrys held a fierce love and loyalty for the Dalish as Dorian did for his homeland; he would see the elves there and, like being a mage leading the Inquisition, have to speak up.

Fiona’s virulent “ _I would rather_ die _than be that again_ ,” echoed in his memory, the raw emotion like a rasp across his mind. 

Emrys would be like that. Like Fenris. He would be hurt, he would suffer, and he would hate. He would die, either because he couldn’t bear it, no more than Fiona could, or because the magisters would grind him under their heels to dust, either kill him or crush his spirit so thoroughly as to destroy him--and everything Dorian loved about him. 

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, Dorian shuddered, deeply chilled. It was a difficult thing to have his misconceptions stripped so utterly from him and to be left naked against such a harsh truth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wiki doesn’t list the name for the Archon referenced in this chapter. It’s made up by the author. 'Vitus' is Latin for 'life'.


	5. Emrys

Emrys found Hawke in the Herald’s Rest with Alistair and Varric, from whom Hawke was almost inseparable when at Skyhold, playing what seemed to Emrys to be an unending game of cards that just got interrupted by things like ‘eating’ and ‘sleeping’ and ‘killing Venatori’. The three men looked up as Emrys approached. Varric asked, “Care to join us?” just as he always did, and, just as he always did, Emrys shook his head no.

He looked at Hawke, suddenly uncertain of himself, which rushed his, “Do you have a moment?”

Hawke’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead but he nodded. Putting his cards face down and rising to his feet, to Alistair, he said, “Keep an eye on Varric, don’t let him peek at my cards. He cheats.” He walked out with Emrys to Varric’s protests of innocence.

Outside the Rest, the mountain air was crisp and clear, the stars brilliant against the night sky. The yard at this time of night was mostly deserted and gave the two men some degree of privacy to talk.

“I, ah, noticed Fenris did not return with you,” Emrys said, uncertain if it was the best way to broach the subject but doing it anyway. “I just wanted to know if everything is okay.”

Hawke grimaced at the question. “As well as things could be under the circumstances,” he replied. “What with Tevinter cultists seducing the Grey Warden into blood magic rituals that are slaughtering their warriors and turning their mages into mindless puppets.” He shuddered then turned serious. “I asked Fenris to go back to the Free Marches and check on my brother. He’s a Templar—or, was,” Hawke corrected himself.

“I know,” Emrys said, when Hawke went silent for a few moments.

“I didn’t know how bad things were with them until I got here,” Hawke said with a faint growl to his words, “getting a chance to talk to Cullen and finding out the extent of the damage from that Maker bedamned red lyrium.” His jaw worked under the shadow of his beard. “Another evil I helped bring into this world.”

Emrys protested. “It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Hawke scoffed before shaking his head. He sounded resigned when he said, “Cullen gave me the name for a clean source for the lyrium the templars need. Hopefully, between Fenris and Carver, they can procure some for him and the men with him.”

Emrys hesitated, remembering the scene at the Grey Warden ritual site. Curiosity won out. “With the involvement of the Venatori, from what I’ve heard of him from Varric, I would have thought Fenris would want to stay.”

Hawke’s mouth twisted sourly, and he shot Emrys a look, sizing him up. “There’s no use sugar coating it. At one time, it might have been entertaining, but it seemed just a matter of time before I walked into my room to find Dorian’s heart left on the floor like a mabari fetching someone’s racy underwear.” He put his hands up, palms towards Emrys in a gesture he recognized as trying to prevent insult from being taken from the comment. “I love Fenris, but he can be a _tiny_ bit irrational where Tevinter mages are concerned,” he added drily, then sobered once more. “I need your help. I need to be here for this. I don’t need to be the cause of another international incident with the Chantry. And I really do need someone to go warn Carver.” He shrugged. “It was a win for everyone.”

 _Except you_ , Emrys wanted to say, but he realized before he voiced it that it was not his place to say it. He felt like he knew the man, from Varric’s book, but also had begun to realize that you really couldn’t know people from the stories. Still, he saw a hint of the hurt in Hawke talking about sending Fenris away, and the sound in his voice that he was trying to convince himself that it really was okay for him to be gone.

“I’m sorry,” Emrys said suddenly. When Hawke looked at him quizzically, he added, “Dorian is from Tevinter and holds to a lot of the customs of his country, but he knows it’s not perfect. He’s a good man.”

Hawke shrugged. “He might be. Everything I’ve been able to see of him doesn’t indicate otherwise. But the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” He smiled mockingly. “Trust me, I know.”

He didn’t quite understand, but Emrys nodded to it anyway, beginning to turn it over in his mind.

“Now, if that’s all?” Hawke asked, peering at Emrys for some sign of the answer, “I’d like to return to my ale and get _shockingly_ drunk, as well as my cards that I’m sure Varric’s found some way to look at despite my warning. Alistair is a wonderful warrior, but he’s terrible at Wicked Grace.”

Emrys nodded again then said, “Good night, Hawke. And thank you.”

Hawke sniffed a ‘hmph’ and turned to return to the light and friendly confines of the Rest.

It was an atmosphere Emrys was disinclined to join. He felt restless, missing, not for the first time or the last, to be away from this place, away from walls and _shemlens_ and Chantry ties to be back with his clan, among the deep forests or the grasslands of the Free Marches.

Or, he thought, looking to the tower the mages had made their own, the light coming through the windows, he wanted to be with Dorian. When Emrys had been with him, he would forget Chantry and Skyhold, aravels and Corypheus, talking about the other members of the Inquisition, discussing the finer points of magic, or making magic, slipping away from everyone’s eyes to Emrys’s bedroom and kissing, tongues tasting, bodies pressed together with hands roaming over backs and thighs, that tiny, delicious pull Dorian did that brought their hips together just before he would break off, teasingly, and smile. Dorian wanted more-- _Emrys_ wanted more--but he also wanted to take things slowly. Dorian was human, from Tevinter to make things more complicated, and Emrys wanted to be sure before giving his heart wholly to him.

Given the doubt clawing at him since Fenris had cornered him, it seemed to have been a wise decision.

With a frustrated huff, Emrys walked swiftly to one of the staircases leading up to the battlements and climbed it.

Up on the wall walk, he took a deep breath, both for the exertion and because the air felt good. The snow on the mountains shone brilliant from the nearly full moon beginning its climb across the field of stars. He leaned his forearms on a merlon on the outer edge of the wall, looking away rather than inwards, letting his mind go as a slight breeze blew across his face and ruffled his hair.

He heard a light footstep and turned, irrational hope springing up then withering just as quickly when he recognized Solas. “Inquisitor. I did not mean to intrude,” Solas said.

Straightening out of the lean, Emrys turned slightly, inviting Solas to join him. “Is their something wrong? Something that needs my attention?”

“No,” Solas said with silent laughter eloquent in the one word. “I came up here to enjoy the view as you do. Breathtaking, is it not?”

Emrys turned back to the vista and nodded. “It is amazing that this has been here all these years, forgotten.”

“There is so much of this world that has been lost to most men’s minds,” Solas said. “Things only I have seen and know of.” He gave Emrys a sideways glance. “But you did not come up here to think of the past, but...the present?”

Looking down at his hands resting on the stone, Emrys admitted, “And the future.”

“Is it the Grey Wardens?” Solas asked in a flat voice.

Giving Solas a sidelong look, Emrys said, “No.” He thought, briefly, about going on, but held is tongue. He got the sense that Solas didn’t approve of Dorian, and he was not Cole. Strange. He realized the spirit was the only person at Skyhold he felt comfortable discussing Dorian with, and then only because Cole could see the distress in him regardless of Emrys’s wishes on the matter.

Solas, in the meantime, was giving him an assessing look, as if trying to peer into his heart as Cole did. “You have a charge before you to stop Corypheus and heal the rifts. That should be your focus at this time. You will have time enough to consider ‘after’ when that task is complete. It would serve you well not to be distracted from that end.”

Resentment filled Emrys. He hadn’t wanted to be Inquisitor, had had the role thrust upon him by some unknown circumstance. All he had ever wanted to be was Dalish, his magic only destined to, perhaps, lead him to becoming a Keeper some day, leading a clan. It was well and good for Solas to talk about ‘tasks’ and ‘focus’, but he chose to be here.

Still...part of the resentment stemmed from knowing Solas had a point. He’d allowed his interest in Dorian to influence his decisions. Even if he didn’t care one whit what the Chantry or Orlesian nobility or _anyone_ , really, thought about his relationship with Dorian, _he_ should care about doing his best to stop Corypheus so he could go back to having the normal life he yearned for.

It was a bitter pill to choke down, realizing his feelings for Dorian had been a pleasant diversion that had become a disruption since Fenris’s arrival, one he should try to put aside until Corypheus was dealt with.

“You’re right,” Emrys admitted and sighed resignedly. “ _Ma serannas, ma falon_.”

Solas nodded acknowledgement to the thanks, and Emrys left him to go down the stairs once more, giving one last glance towards the lit windows of the tower. Shaking his head, he returned to his quarters, already feeling the ache begin in his chest for the difficult choices he expected he would have to make.

* * *

Adamant loomed above Emrys, fires whipping fitful, uncertain lights on the battlements. All around him, the Inquisition forces were moving into position, preparing to begin the siege. A few arrows whistled through the air, falling well short. “Testing the range,” Varric commented, gauging where it landed with a critical eye.

Cullen nodded at him, and Emrys returned it before Cullen moved out to begin directing the men. Around Emrys, his inner circle gathered, as well as Alistair and Hawke.

He couldn’t look at Dorian.

“Cassandra,” he said to the Seeker. “I’d like you working with Cullen. I think he intends to give you a company of templars to lead. Do whatever needs to be done.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” she said, putting a fist to the opposite shoulder in salute then headed over to join Cullen.

“Blackwall, Bull, and--“ out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dorian straighten up alertly, “Cole. You’re with me. Once Cullen’s people have opened up a path, we’ll be going in to find the Grey Warden Commander with Alistair and Hawke.”

“I’m going to head up early,” Hawke interjected. “See if I can help your men on the walls.”

“Very well,” Emrys said, and Hawke departed.

“What about us?” Sera demanded. “I’m not going to be sitting on my arse this whole fight, everyone else fightin’, yeah? I got arrows, too, not those sad splinters,” she said derisively, looking at the nearby arrow.

Despite the seriousness of the situation and the disapproval he sensed off of Dorian, Emrys smiled minutely. “You and Varric will be with Cullen holding one of the choke points. Solas and Dorian,” and he still couldn’t quite meet Dorian’s eyes, “you’ll be with them providing magical support.”

“Of course,” Solas murmured, but Dorian said, “Can I have a word?”

Emrys looked at Cullen, who was busy assessing the deployment, then back to Dorian with a curt, “Briefly.”

They moved a short distance away, Emrys positioning himself so that he could watch Cullen past Dorian’s shoulder, and steeled himself. “What is it?”

“Amatus,” Dorian said softly, and Emrys flinched, the word and tone nearly unraveling his resolve. “I’ve been at your side through time travel and the attack on Haven, Halamshiral and everything in between. We work _well_ together. How can you leave me behind now?”

Clenching his jaw for a moment as he swallowed hard, Emrys dared to look at Dorian directly. There was hurt there, confusion, and genuine caring, an expression Emrys had seen before, but only once, in the privacy of his room. Never before so many people. Creators, he wanted to ease that pain. But he remembered his conversation with Solas, took a deep breath, and said, “I need Bull’s muscle to clear the path. Blackwall to be his shield wall, and maybe his presence will help sway the Grey Warden warriors over to help us against the mages. And Cole,” he swallowed again, the one uncertainty in his decision, but he had to follow through with it, he must, “Cole has been here before. If we run into trouble, maybe that experience will be helpful. I need you, Dorian,” he voice pitched low but cracking with the emotion he tried to suppress. “I need you to take care of Sera and Varric and the rest of the soldiers.”

“I should be with you,” Dorian said, matching Emrys’s quiet intensity.

Emrys wanted to touch him. To take his face in his hands, as Hawke had to Fenris before sending Fenris away, but he dared not. Not here. Not now. Not with what Emrys needed to do, nor with so many people to witness. Not with so much conflict still unresolved between them. Instead, he shook his head and took a step back, catching Cullen’s beckoning gesture out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll talk later, back at Skyhold. Take care of yourself,” he added with fierce sternness, then went to let Cullen lead him to the breach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke’s "But the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing" line is [ambiguously attributed to Edmund Burke](http://quoteinvestigator.com/2010/12/04/good-men-do/).


	6. Dorian

A lull in the battle allowed Dorian to clearly notice the arrival of a runner and to hear Cullen’s barked, “Report.”

“It’s the Inquisitor, sir,” the runner said, trying to catch her breath. “Or, Seeker Cassandra thinks it was.”

Dorian felt awash with cold dread, forgetting the battle and the din of it becoming a buzz of nonsensical noise as he found himself moving towards the runner and Cullen. Before he could formulate question, Cullen voiced what he wanted to say. “What about him?” he asked, impatience put a growl in his voice.

“Several people think they saw him falling off the north wall.”

Cullen’s “What?” exploded from him incredulously.

“I was over near the north wall with that archdemon thing flying over head,” she said, able to speak more clearly now that she’d had a bit of time to recover. “There was this big flash of light, maybe a spell or something, and it crashed down on the wall. The wall started collapsing, rocks and stone falling everywhere. But then someone saw something else falling, bodies, p’rhaps, and then one of those big green rift things opened up right o’er our heads, sir, right o’er our _heads_ ,” she repeated in her shock, “and…I don’t know, sir. The bodies seemed to fall into it. Least, that’s what it looked like. Then the rift just went *poof* and disappeared, like it had never been. Someone said they thought they saw the Inquisitor falling, with his light hair and green glowing hand and all. One of ‘em might’ve been that qunari, too, big as a house, he is.”

As if he was far away, Dorian heard Cullen say, “Thank you, Morgan. Wait a moment here. Wren!” He called out. “Go with Morgan here. Show Wren where you saw this, so we can search the rubble later.” But Dorian was no longer paying attention to either of them, searching through the haze of smoke and dust searching for a glimpse of that north wall. It was too far away, his view blocked by the tall structures within the fortress. Emrys had fallen. She’d described a rift opening up below him--they’d seen enough of them that it wasn’t surprising, but maybe the _where_...his mind raced, sorting through the ‘what ifs’, postulating, and none of the possibilities were good. The unfamiliar sensation of panic fluttered through his chest and stomach, made worse by the physical malaise he felt quivering through his limbs.

“Dorian,” Cullen called out, jerking Dorian’s attention back. When Dorian looked at him, Cullen scowled. “You look terrible. Take a break. You need a lyrium potion and some food. Have Solas come up to relieve you.”

“I’m fine,” Dorian lied quickly. He wanted to be out here, _needed_ to be out here. Maybe if he was, he could do something to prevent the awful outcomes he’d imagined.

“No. You’re not,” Cullen countered. “I know what it looks like when a mage is depleted.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, trying to cover weakness with his usual bravado.

“That wasn’t a request,” Cullen said implacably. “Go take care of yourself, that’s an order.”

For a moment, Dorian intended to laugh and tell Cullen what he thought of his ‘orders’, but two things stopped him. One was the deadly intent in Cullen’s expression along with a sudden uncertainty that Cullen _might_ use his power as a southern templar against him if he resisted. The other was the realization that Cullen was right, that the bone-deep weariness was from pushing himself to exhaustion. Even back in Tevinter--in the Circle in Vyrantium, studying with Alexius--he’d never sustained this level of magical expenditure for so long a time.

In a fit of termerity born from some deep well of recalcitrance, he reached out and patted Cullen’s cheek, leaving a smear of soot amidst the golden stubble. “It’s so nice to know you care for me, Commander,” he cooed, then turned to head back to where the reserves had staked out a recovery area before his legs could go out from under him and ruin the effect. He found Solas there, leaning on his staff. “Cullen needs you,” he told the apostate, who simply nodded and headed out.

Dorian went to the tranquil dispensing lyrium potions, trying and failing to not be disquieted by her kind as he always was. This time, however, away from Cullen, Solas, or anyone else within Emrys’s inner circle, he was too distracted to dwell on it, merely accepting the vial and taking it with a shaking hand. Try as he might, his mind kept circling back to Morgan’s news, and so it was that he found himself at the makeshift dining hall with no recollection as to how he arrived there. Accepting a plate of...he didn’t want to call it food, because under other circumstances he wouldn’t have _touched_ it, but something he needed, he found an unoccupied seat in the corner, took it and stared at the inedible glop.

He didn’t question what Morgan had reported. Although the Anchor had never before behaved in the way she described, Solas had once said it was like a key--one that could unlock a door as well as close them as Emrys did all the time. And hadn’t Corypheus created the Breach—an enormous rift into the Fade--somehow at the Conclave to start this whole mess?

Morgan’s description made it sound like a rift had either opened up in a damned inconvenient—or maybe _convenient_ \--spot and…what? Dorian prodded his tired mind. Bodies. Falling bodies. Probably the Iron Bull and Emrys, at the very least. Either to the ground or…into the rift. He wasn’t sure which of the two possibilities were what caused him to grow even colder and shiver. Either very certainly dead, or…somewhere in the Fade. Bodily. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of any other outcome given the evidence at hand.

He knew he ought to eat, but he pushed the suddenly revolting plate of food away.

There was only one way to resolve which had happened, and Dorian, trying to hold at bay the grief threatening to consume him, was determined to do so.

* * *

The afternoon had passed, light was fading into evening, the battle was winding down, and Dorian sorted through the rubble under the collapsed wall alongside Sera and other Inquisition troops, searching for bodies.

So far, they’d found nothing other than the mangled body, of what they thought was a woman, wearing Grey Warden armor. She was so disfigured either by wounds or the fall that she might be unrecognizable even to them.

“Water for you, sir,” an elf said, burdened by a yoke across his shoulders from which two buckets hung, a ladle in each. Dorian stopped his work to take a drink--the water tasting better than any wine he’d ever had, there in that dry, dusty moment--and then returned the ladle to the bucket. After a moment, he thought to say, “Thank you.”

That earned a startled, pleased smile from the elf along with a knuckled salute to his forehead. “Yer welcome, sir,” he said before moving on.

Dorian put his hands to his lower back and straightened up, feeling stiffness in muscles he hadn’t even known existed. He remained like that, taking the brief respite, trying to stretch out some of the ache, hardly able to believe how beautiful the twilight sky was after the carnage of the day.

And Emrys…and the rest of his team, he guessed, still unaccounted for.

Out of no where, he thought of Relenus and his smile. That unresolved ‘what if’ had haunted him for years, following him from Tevinter to Ferelden. It had been an unhealed wound he’d buried deep, an old pain such a part of the fabric of his existence he never examined it. That he’d remembered it here...now...

Emrys had made the offer to Dorian he could never do himself, to make true all the rumors of their intimacy that Mother Giselle had spread and reported. So simple. So eloquent. Shaming Dorian with the ease with which he did it.

The harsh words they’d exchanged after Halamshiral were a new, raw wound chafing him. Dorian’s usual casual flippancy then had wounded Emrys, he’d seen that. It had taken weeks, and Fiona’s harsh truths, to understand why. But here, exhausted, disheveled, covered in dried sweat and stone dust, he began to realize he might never be able to make it right. Emrys might be gone. Dead. And along with the suddenly metallic note to the water and the dust choking the air, he tasted regret, burning and bitter.

The image of his father rose up before him, temporarily banishing thoughts of Emrys. Not the proud, ambitious but loving figure of his childhood, but the old, broken man who had stood before him in the Redcliffe tavern. Dorian had been so _angry_ seeing him there, he’d been all too willing to follow Emrys’s suggestion to leave, despite all his father’s attempts to speak to him. He’d contacted a member of the Inquisition, arranged for the meeting, traveled all the way Ferelden to speak to him…and Dorian hadn’t allowed him to.

He vowed to himself that if he survived the rest of this siege and made it back to Skyhold, he would at least send his father a letter. Maybe he could do _that_ much right.

“Don’t give up hope.”

Sera’s cheerful voice broke into his introspection, taking him off guard. “What?”

“I said—don’t give up hope. He’s Andraste’s Herald. Maker watches over him, yeah?”

Dorian gave a nervous, brittle laugh to that. “I think he’d say it had more to do with his Creators.”

Sera made a rude sound. “He is all elfy like that. But, don’t matter what _he_ believes, what matters is what’s _true_. He survived that Breach thing, when no one else, not even the _Divine_ did. Andraste herself saved him, everyone knows that. Coryface is still out there, Andraste’ll make sure he’s around to kick Coryface right in the arse and save everyone.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Sera,” Dorian said with a bleak smile.

“Who says? You, all high and mighty Tevinter magister? How do _you_ know it don’t?”

“It just doesn’t,” Dorian said sharply, feeling a headache coming on. “Just—let’s get back to looking. Maybe we’ll find something.”

A running figure in armor came jingling up behind them, bringing everyone’s attention around until it was identified as an Inquisition messenger. “Commander Cullen says you can stop. The Inquisitor and his team has been found.”

“What?” Dorian asked in startled, hopeful haste before anyone else could react. “Where?”

The figure pointed. “In the fortress. He’s going there now.”

“Do you know where it is?” Dorian asked. At the messenger’s nod, he added peremptorily, “Show me.”

He hurried along after the messenger as quickly as possible short of breaking into an unseemly run, having to dodge troops going into or out of the fortress still involved with the last remnants of the battle. The way through was mostly clear, guarded by weary soldiers, but beyond them, Dorian could see how much the day had cost both sides, the blood and corpses still laying where they’d fallen until the clean up could begin and the dead counted.

It sickened him and added to the shakiness he already felt.

They reached the bailey and although Dorian made a point of doing a quick scan of the scene, taking in the Inquisition forces alongside the Grey Warden warriors and the Iron Bull, Blackwall, Cole, and Cullen, his gaze locked onto Emrys. He looked hale, tired, perhaps, but with no adverse signs of wherever he’d been all this time.

“Good luck, Inquisitor,” Alistair was saying to him, leaning over slightly with an arm holding his midsection as if wounded, “Tell Morrigan...ah, just tell her I stood there looking foolish.”

After Alistair hobbled off, Emrys glanced around the area and found Dorian looking at him. Cullen tried to get his attention—Dorian was too far away to hear what was said—but saw Emrys half turn towards him, give him a gesture to wait, then made a path straight to Dorian, a path aided by those in between moving out of his way as he approached like the wake of ship around the prow.

When he reached Dorian, he wordlessly and without warning flung his arms around Dorian’s neck, shocking him. For a split second, all Dorian could feel was mortified at the scandal of doing this in front of everyone watching, unable to respond in kind. But then he _felt_ the embrace--Emrys’s face buried in the crook between his neck and shoulder, ragged breath fluttering warm against his skin; Emrys’s lean body touching his; Emrys’s arms holding him, _clutching_ him close—and his resistance evaporated. He wanted this this as much as Emrys did, and Dorian’s arms encircled Emrys’s waist, pulling him closer. “Amatus,” he whispered low against Emrys’s ear, for him alone, reassurance both for Emrys and himself that Emrys was here, alive, and everything was all right. A shudder wracked Emrys’s body in response and his grip across Dorian’s shoulders tightened.

But he _was_ alive, Dorian marveled. He would have another chance.

“Where’s Hawke?”

Varric’s question cut through the general background noise and caused Emrys to loosen his grip to and step, reluctantly, out of the embrace. All he had to do was look at Varric, misery and regret plain in his expression, for Varric to have his answer.

Varric’s own expression crumpled into one of loss. “Shit,” is all he said, before leaving, brushing aside The Iron Bull’s attempt to console him.

“Inquisitor, we really must speak,” Cullen said quietly but firmly.

Emrys nodded, shooting Dorian a look of regret, then turned back to Cullen. “Very well, Commander. Speak.”


	7. Dorian

After their arrival back at Skyhold, the war council had Emrys busy dealing with the details of integrating the conscripted Grey Wardens into the Inquisition forces, the losses suffered at Adamant, and the new intelligence waiting for him upon their return of the red templars and Corypheus’s other allies massing in an area of Orlais called the Arbor Wilds. In addition, there were the missives to sign to be sent to their own allies that had stacked up during the time away, not to mention the day of court he was required to hold to hear petitions to sit in judgment to both Erimond—may he be lost in the Fade forever, as far as Dorian was concerned—and a Grey Warden who demanded it, followed by Erimond’s very public execution.

But a few days later, Dorian had managed to catch Emrys coming down the stairs from a meeting with Leliana and found the courage to be the one to say, “I’d like to talk to you.” Emrys had smiled despite his weariness and had said, “Come by my room after supper.”

Which is how Dorian found himself at the door to Emrys’s quarters, nervous and perspiring, before knocking on it.

It was answered, and Dorian immediately noticed that some reserve had slipped back into Emrys’s demeanor since his return from the Fade, the reckless openness subdued after time for the emotional reaction to have cooled. Emrys stepped back from the open doorway to allow Dorian a wide berth to enter. 

He did so and, rather than begin, took a look around this little oasis of ‘Emrys’ in a keep that was otherwise everyone else. It wasn’t how _he_ would’ve decorated the place, but it said something of the Inquisitor. During the day, sunlight would turn the stained glass windows with the Dalish motifs into a prismatic rainbow painting over the simple, clean curves of the furniture. Fur draped over one small, waist-high table that held only a bowl full of, to what Dorian’s eye, seemed like junk--some rocks, a few feathers, pieces of antlers--but apparently represented something of significance to Emrys. Otherwise it was spare and spartan, with the sense of a place to be than a place lived in.

It summed up Dorian's sense of Emrys perfectly, that this place was temporary to him. It did little to assuage Dorian's doubts.

“You wanted to talk?” Emrys prompted after a time, not impatiently.

Dorian recognized it as an attempt to start the conversation and was grateful, but temporized with, “You know, this isn’t an easy thing for me to do?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

Dorian smiled, remembering the last time Emrys had asked him that. This time, he replied in a rueful murmur, “Something like that.” He walked to one of the glorious French doors leading out to the balcony, resting his fingertips lightly against the cold glass. The darkness behind it turned some of the panes into shadowy mirrors, allowing him to see Emrys by reflection. He couldn’t bear to look at him while being so direct. “You asked me a question a while back of which you didn’t like the answer.”

Emrys’s smile faded and after a long moment of silence, said, “I remember.”

“I can’t change the answer.” He drew in a breath, trying to steady his nerves. “I slept with elven slaves. Many of them.” _Fenris_ , he thought, but didn’t say it, only paused over it before he continued. “It was the only socially acceptable way for me at the time to satisfy my more carnal desires.” He hesitated again to take a deep breath, letting it out, then said, “I realize now why it upset you so much. Why it was wrong.”

“How?”

The word was harshly spoken, the wound re-opened. But, Maker willing, Dorian thought, the way a festering one needed to be, so it could drain and heal cleanly. Holding on to that hope, he said, “I did what I always do. I studied. I asked questions. I thought about the problem.” With another deep breath, he took the incredibly difficult step of turning to face Emrys, to see the unreadable tangle of emotions in his expression. “I can’t change the answer, and I can’t change the past. I don’t even think I could change how Tevinter views slavery.” He gave a breathy, self-deprecating laugh. “Unless I literally want to die trying. All I _can_ do is change who I am, now, and how I think, what I believe, and add that to my list of impossible dreams for my homeland. And hope that is sufficient for you.”

Emrys was silent after Dorian finished. Too silent. Searching Dorian’s face, making Dorian uncomfortable. It reached a point where he broke, starting to say, “But if not—“ when Emrys interrupted.

“Do you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

Emrys took a slow, cautious step forward. “That even if you think you can’t do it, that you might die trying, that you’ll try to do it anyway.”

“I don’t have a death wish, if that’s what you’re asking,” Dorian said drily then sighed. “But if I want to see them ceasing to use blood magic and to give up on the dreams of past glory, like the Venatori, then I might as well look at slavery, too.”

“Then—“ Another step, then two, so that they were now close, “it is sufficient to me.”

It was Dorian’s turn to study Emrys’s face, the alien elven eyes, the exotic tattoos unique to his kind, the upward taper of his pointed ears. He wanted to take Emrys roughly in his arms, to crush his mouth to his, but the weeks of discord and the reason for it made his certainty fragile. Instead, he said, “I would very much like to kiss you now, if it is agreeable to you.”

Only to have Emrys do the thing to him, his long, slender fingers slipping into Dorian’s hair to pull his face close as their mouths met and moved with increasing hunger. A pleading whimper sounded in Dorian’s throat, an answering, reassuring groan in Emrys’s, and Dorian’s hands seemed to move of their own volition to the small of Emrys’s back, tracing irregular patterns up and then down, over the curve of Emrys’s ass and eliciting another moan of approval for something he knew Emrys enjoyed very much.

It went on for forever, or too short a time, when Emrys broke it off, face still close but far enough away for Dorian to be able to focus on his eyes, pupils blown with desire, and the shiny redness of his lips.

And through those lips, Emrys said, “ _Ma vhenan_.”

The elven term of endearment moved Dorian profoundly, and he closed his eyes, leaning in to rest his forehead against Emrys’s so their breath blew and mingled. “Amatus,” he murmured in kind.

A corner of Emry’s mouth twitched in amusement. “How _bad_ does the magister want to be?”

“I’m _not_ a magister,” Dorian protested, but his breath caught and a shiver ran through him at the tone of Emrys’s voice and the instance it recalled. A sly smile tugged up a corner of his mouth. “But if I was, the answer would be: _very_.” He stopped Emrys as he was about to kiss him again. “Are you sure, though?”

“This time? Yes.”

“Well,” Dorian said, “in that case.” He dove in to resume the kiss.

* * *

It was enjoyable, _very_ enjoyable Dorian thought, to be laying in bed with someone again, the smell of sex, rank and erotic, permeating his skin, the sheets, even the air. It hadn’t been the best sex he’d ever had, Emrys’s inexperience having been all too apparent, but his eagerness had been endearing, a rare thing to Dorian after so many years. There was also something to be said for a _relationship_ elevating the pleasure to be had.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, adding the faintest hint of pressure with the hand at Emrys’s waist, meaning to convey comfort along with the concerned tone while he watched for Emrys’s reaction.

“I’m fine,” Emrys said in a fuzzy voice of satiation. “More than fine.”

“Good,” Dorian said, thumb idly stroking the skin under Emrys’s ribs. He was quiet for sometime, trying to gather up the courage to speak further. Finally, he did, albeit indirectly, “May I ask a question?”

Emrys smiled and sniffed a laugh. “Of course.” His thumb at Dorian’s waist began brushing his skin in imitation, which caused Dorian to stir a little.

Until he tamped it down to ask, “What happened in the Fade?”

It was clear this was not the question Emrys was expecting, and his thumb stilled, the hand tightening in reaction that had less to do with intimacy than trepidation. “What do you mean, what happened?”

“You went into it bodily. For the second time, I might add, when in all of history, that’s ever been done once before. And Hawke didn’t return. I thought you might want to speak of it.” Emrys closed his eyes, breathing quickened, and Dorian could tell that even remembering it had upset Emrys. Quickly, he added, “If you would rather not, it’s okay.”

“No,” Emrys said, eyes flying open. “That’s not it.”

Haltingly at first, then with growing strength, he told Dorian, of the spirit he encountered that took Justinia’s shape, of regaining his memories of what had happened at the Conclave, of how he’d gained the Anchor purely by mistake through Justinia’s quick thinking to disrupt Corypheus’s ritual. Of the Nightmare, the graveyard of their friend’s greatest fears, even telling Dorian his own--temptation--and the bolt of terror at this news only served to confirm the truth of what Emrys had seen.

"He taunted each of us with that knowledge. For me, it was the Dalish once again losing their freedom and being enslaved." His fingers tightened on Dorian's waist, pulling their bodies close in an intimacy that went beyond erotic and lit a flame in Dorian's heart. Emrys’s voice went soft and faltered once more, his head bowed so that Dorian couldn’t see his face. “But after it said that, I realized it could just as well have been losing you.”

Dorian’s breath caught, but the flame flared into warmth that suffused him. When Dorian didn’t say anything, unable to find the words to break the fragile silence, Emrys brought his gaze upwards, studying Dorian’s expression like a curious untamed creature not fleeing upon being approached in the wilds. “I never wanted to be Inquisitor, and it’s both better and worse, somehow, to know that I gained the Anchor purely by happenstance. But, fate or chance, I’m the only person in the world with the power to close the rifts, and even if I don’t want to, Corypheus isn’t going to stop coming after me, so I have to stop him.” His hand left Dorian’s waist to cup his cheek, a gesture that caused Dorian’s eyes to flutter close briefly for the leap in his pulse it caused, before he snapped them open again as Emrys went on. “I never thought I would fall in love with a human, much less a mage from Tevinter, either. Reason says I should end this and focus on the threat, but--“ Emrys leaned in to rest his forehead against Dorian’s, his thumb brushing the line of Dorian’s cheekbone. “The Fade made me decide to the Dread Wolf with ‘reason’. I wanted to be with you.”

Moved by the admission, all Dorian could do for sometime was to lay there, to feel Emrys’s face touching his, the intimate caress of his thumb, his body close to his, and to feel grateful and incredibly lucky to be like this, right then, with him. But in his relief, a dark thought wriggled in that he voiced with, “What of Hawke?”

Emrys stiffened then recoiled minutely at the question, his hand dropping away from Dorian’s face to return to his waist. He described the final moments in the Fade confronting Nightmare and the choice having to be made between Alistair and Hawke, having to decide which of them he needed more, which most deserved to be sacrificed, in a tight, jagged voice thick with suppressed emotion.

“But there was more to it than that,” Emrys said, anguish etched into his face. “I didn’t see it until the end.”

Dorian moved his hand up to cup Emrys’s face, concern for how distraught he seemed growing to a point where Dorian wanted to soothe him. “Saw what, amatus?”

Emrys’s gaze flickered around Dorian’s face but never met Dorian’s eyes as he said, “Hawke. There was so much pain in him. So much even Cole said he couldn’t fix it. And...there was some other things he said. I think he needed to do that. Atonement or penance for Kirkwall, I don’t know.”

Unsure of what to say to that, Dorian said nothing, just held him. Emrys’s eyes closed and he leaned into Dorian’s hand, which began to alarm him, but Emrys said in a voice wracked with guilt,“All I could think of afterwards was of Fenris, how hard this is going to be for him. And I wonder--” He broke off, jaw clenching as he swallowed hard, then opened his eyes again to meet Dorian’s worried gaze. “I have to wonder if Hawke didn’t send him away on purpose. If he knew something like that might happen. Because he told me, before Fenris showed up here, that Fenris would’ve killed himself to protect Hawke.”

Dorian’s thumb beginning to move in light gestures across Emrys’s temple. ““You can’t know that, amatus. And even if you’re right--if that is what Hawke needed--then maybe you’ve done some good. For him, at least. And you. And Bull and Blackwall and the Wardens.” He gave a sudden, brittle laugh, “Maker, now I’m imagining you being the one to stay behind, and I will admit to selfishness of being very, very glad it was him instead.”

“Then you can imagine how Fenris might feel,” Emrys said pointedly.

It struck home, leaving Dorian breathless for a moment, before he dipped his chin in a nod, acknowledging it. “Yes. I fancy I can.”

“Varric is going to write to him, let him know what happened.” He bit his lip. “I...feel like I should, too. To do _something_. I feel like I owe him. For my own life, if nothing else.”

Dorian thought of Fenris, that wild, untamable creature of Danarius’s household...then of the last time he’d seen him, in the dry Orlesian desert, tamed, his forehead pressed to Hawke’s, Hawke’s hands cradling his face, not unlike how Dorian did to Emrys now.

An ineffable and unexpected sadness swept over him, roughening his voice when he replied, “Your life. And so much more.”


	8. Epilogue - Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story as I intended to tell it ended with the previous chapter. But the muse--or my inner Fenris--refused to leave it at that and demanded this final 'chapter' be written to tie up the last dangly string and close a loop that began in the Prologue.
> 
> Which is to say: feel free to skip this if you were here for Lavellan and Dorian.
> 
> And as an additional note: thanks to everyone who has been reading this. Your Kudos and Comments have carried me through the arduous journey of posting this. I hope you enjoyed it. -- tersa

It had been several weeks since Fenris had returned to the Free Marches, and Hawke hadn’t turned up.

He’d expected Rafe by now. Even when Rafe had been at his most infuriating, in the ten years Fenris had known him, he’d never gone back on his word to him. “ _I’ll come back to you as soon as I can. As soon as this is over_ ,” he’d said, face close to his, and Fenris had believed him.

 _Had_ to believe him.

“There’s a package for you, Fenris, and a letter” Carver said.

Fenris disengaged from the sparring match with one of Carver’s charges, making a sharp gesture to indicate he was done, and looked over to Rafe’s brother while sheathing his practice sword. Carver looked as uneasy as Fenris felt, the sense of foreboding clawing up from his belly like a baby varterral.

Fenris never got letters or packages.

“Aveline forwarded it on,” Carver said as Fenris approached him, holding it out for him. It was a long, flat leather pouch, tied with cords and sealed with wax. The letter was also sealed, with the same seal and wax. He took both from Carver’s hand and didn’t recognize anything beyond his name and the address, care of Aveline in Kirkwall. “If you want, you can read it in my tent.”

Something in Carver’s tone brought Fenris’s attention up sharply. The boy--no, he hadn’t been that for sometime now--the man looked unsettled. With a curt nod of thanks, he walked swiftly to the main command tent of Carver’s unit and broke the seal with his knife. There were two pages enclosed, and the one on top started:

_Broody,_

_Andraste knows this is a letter I wish I didn’t have to write, but I thought it should come from me before you hear it some other way. Hawke is dead._ 


The bottom fell out of Fenris’s world and he swayed, catching his balance with a hand thrust hard on the planning table in the center of the room. Using that for support, he made his way to the sole chair, falling into it heavily before continuing to read.

_Or, he probably is. He was with the Inquisitor in the Fade and stayed behind to hold off what was described as a Nightmare demon to let everyone else escape._ 


That didn’t sound the slightest bit like Hawke. Maybe this was a false note.

_Everyone else made it out, but Hawke didn’t. There are troops posted at the site, but it’s been a few days and so far--nothing._ 


Which didn’t mean anything, just that he hadn’t come out _there_.

_When we cleaned out the room Hawke was staying in, we found the pouch. Once I looked inside, I knew it was for you and Junior. You’ll deliver it to him, right?_ 


Fenris looked to the package, dropped on the floor and forgotten in the shock from the news, and bent to retrieve it. He almost opened it up right then, but Varric’s letter was almost done.

_And Fenris--I’m sorry. If I’d realized this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have gotten Hawke involved. Or at least would’ve made sure you were here for it. I’m sorry._

_\-- Varric_




He put the page aside and saw a second, unfamiliar handwriting on the other page, but his eyes fell to an inked sigil at the bottom that looked vaguely familiar—until it clicked as something he had seen in one of the visits to Merrill’s Dalish clan. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew who the letter was from.

_Fenris,_

_Varric says he will be writing you, so you already know. He saved my life, but he did so much more than that. There was a giant demon, a servant of Corypheus, controlling the demon army raised by the Grey Wardens. We destroyed the demon but there were others there, too many, and the only way for any of us to escape was for someone to stay behind. Hawke offered to do that, said he needed to._

_I couldn’t say no to him._




_Yes, you could have!_ Fenris wanted to scream at Emrys, remembering the Inquisitor’s face clearly.

_Hawke’s sacrifice saved not only myself and my friends, but also Alistair and countless lives of both Grey Wardens and Inquisition forces, people we will desperately need if we are to defeat Corypheus. Hawke is gone, but I honor his memory in this: when I do it, it will be in Hawke’s name._ 


Politician _nugshit_ , Fenris raged. None of this brought Hawke back.

_On a more personal note—I appreciated getting to meet you and the conversation we had while you were here. Although it ended badly, I wanted to let you know_ 


Fenris’s breath caught.

_that I needed that challenge._ 


Disappointment. He’d hoped Emrys would admit he’d cast aside the Tevinter, but, bitterly, he supposed that was too much to ask.

_I had been willing to turn a blind eye for the sake of my personal feelings, and that was unworthy of me. I cannot say that you would entirely agree with the outcome, but I will say: I am trying. If there is any way for me to address the issue so important to you, to us both, I will try to use the power of the Inquisition to do so. I cannot say anything more explicit in this letter for fear it may fall into my enemies’ hands. I hope this is enough for you to understand my meaning._ 


More politician nugshit. He’d seen so much of it, secondhand, when Rafe had been Viscount, a pale mockery of the games played amongst the magisters in Tevinter. Emrys was promising to work towards ending slavery in Tevinter, but only _trying_.  
Dalish or no, he was as bad as any magister.

_I am not very good at this—Dalish do not write letters—but Josephine says I need a better ending. The only one I can think of is: Ir abelas, ma falon. Dareth shiral._ 


The sigil closed the letter where a signature might be. Fenris looked at the strange words and wondered what they meant, but then flung that letter aside angrily. He sat there, seething and indecisive, before the burning need to know overwhelmed the rage and he reached for the package. With a shaking hand, he slid the knife under one of the cords and turned the blade to bring the sharpened edge up; a forceful jerk and the strap snapped.  
Opening the flap, he found three items inside: a folded piece of parchment, sealed again but this time by a different color wax and seal, one he recognized as the Amell crest, and two smaller bags. Suddenly afraid of the letter, he opened the larger of the bags first and dumped the contents out to his hand, something heavy and cloth-covered that, when unwrapped, turned out to be the actual Amell seal. He put that onto the table gingerly, as if it might suddenly animate and bite him, and reached for the second bag.

What fell out of it was a heavy silver colored coin--or maybe a medallion, noticing the hollow loop on one side of it. Embossed on the surface, in a ring at the edge, a hawk in flight chased the tail of a wolf which in turn nipped at the tail of the hawk.

Angry tears suddenly filled Fenris’s eyes, and he put the medallion aside, still carefully cushioning it on the bag it came in, and reached to unseal the letter. He blinked to clear his vision, and immediately recognized Rafe’s handwriting. It always reminded him of Kirkwall and the year Rafe taught him how to read…and how to love. How to love a mage.

_Fenris,_

_If you’re reading this, then I must not have made it back from Adamant. Blasted inconvenient, that. Dying for a cause was never something I expected to do, and I’m sure that will come as no great shock to you._ 


Despite his grief, Fenris sniffed a laugh that came perilously close to a sob.

_But I’ve realized something during the course of my weeks here at Skyhold, with the Inquisition. So much of the things Varric ascribed to me in his book…they weren’t me. You know that, you were there. I spent so much of my time then simply trying to survive, to not get caught by the templars—there was so much good I could have done, and I didn’t._

_I shouldn’t have driven Anders away. I should have helped him. Maybe if I had, maybe he wouldn’t have done what he did._




Fenris’s reaction to that was hot and violent, growl of protest choked off by the reality of the present. He continued.

_I should have stood up to Meredith. She was crazy as a wet cat in a sack, and, looking back, I was the only person in the city who could’ve done it. Given what happened, it couldn’t have been any worse. She still tried to kill me. I could’ve saved all those innocent mages._ 


Grudgingly, he had to agree there. Years later, he still itched for the chance to tear her heart out again for betraying Rafe the way she had. He’d lived with the scars she’d left on Rafe ever since.

_So, here I am, about to march into a demon-infested fortress full of Grey Wardens and Venatori and Maker only knows what else…willingly. Because I finally have gone crazy like Carver always accused me of. Hopefully, whatever got me was something appropriately awful, and not something like nugs, or Maker so help me, giant spiders. That would be the worst._ 


Fenris wasn’t sure where ‘Nightmare demons’ ranked, but it sounded awful enough. It had taken Rafe from him. His hand clenched into a fist, and he tore his thoughts away from that.

_I told you I needed to do this, and this is why. Corypheus escaping wasn’t my only mistake, but he’s the one I might be able to fix. He’s threatening to destroy the entire damn world and everything I have left in it that I love, and I have to stop it. I need to do this one, good thing in my life, besides loving you, and stop hiding._ 


Fenris felt his eyes begin to burn again and stopped reading, looking away from the page while he got angry at himself until he found control once more.

_Let Carver know. I’m sure he’ll call me all kinds of names that basically all mean ‘stupid’ and you can tell him I think he’s right. That ought to shut him up for a good few seconds or so._ 


Despite the pain threatening to crush his chest, Fenris smiled at that. He’d watched Rafe and Carver snarl and snap at one another for nearly ten years now, and although neither one of them would admit it, he could see the brotherly bond of love there that hadn’t existed when he’d first met them, before Carver had joined the templars.

This was going to devastate him as well.

_I left the Amell seal behind. If you’ve got this, hopefully you have the seal as well. Give it to him. I know templars aren’t supposed to have any ‘earthly possessions’ or some such shit, but it’s his now. I don’t know how well he’d be able to make good on it with our family name such a mess, but maybe he can. Or, if he doesn’t want to, he can give it to Charade. Just—by Andraste’s glowing asscheeks, do NOT let him give it to Uncle Gamlen?_ 


A sob did escape Fenris now instead of the laugh he intended, and he brought the fist up to his mouth to prevent any others.

_The other thing…I had that made for you. I was going to give it to you when I got back. I’m wearing one just like it right now. My good luck talisman. Although, I guess if you’re reading this, it didn’t do a very good job, eh? But it pleases me to think you’ll have it anyway. We did spend so many years chasing each other around in circles, didn’t we?_ 


The tears finally broke through and began to fall, making it difficult to read, but Fenris didn’t care. He swiped at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand to clear them, and they just kept coming.

_One last thing. I sent you away to help Carver, and I’d like you to keep doing it, if you’re willing. He’s the only Hawke left, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside to think of the two of you looking out for one another without me around. Or, that could be the cheese Alistair insisted I eat after dinner. Never trust Orlesian cheese._ 


Here Fenris did laugh. Through it all, this was the Rafe he loved, irreverent even when it was the absolute worst time for it, making him smile even when he was so angry he wanted to scream.

_I was never good at endings. No grand flourishes. No grave pronouncements. I just ask that you promise me one thing:_

_That I’m not the death of you._

_I love you._

_Rafe_




Fenris bowed his head and covered his eyes with a splayed hand, letting the grief out. After a time, he heard someone walk into the tent and Carver ask with concern, “Fenris? Is everything alright?” Shaking his head, Fenris put down Rafe’s letter and took up Varric’s, thrusting it out to Carver, who read it in the fading afternoon light. “Oh, Maker,” Carver said after a few moments, then finished reading in silence. He looked up and met Fenris’s gaze and said nothing, just sympathy and understanding and the shared bond of their loss in it, before slewing his attention to the table. He saw the seal and sucked in a breath, armor clanking as he crossed the floor to touch one gauntleted finger to the handle of the seal.

“It’s yours,” Fenris said in a voice as rough as sand. “He wanted you to have it.”

“I’m not supp—”

“The templars have fallen,” Fenris interrupted him with a growl. “Everything’s changing. I think you can change that much, for him.”

Carver swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and, shakingly, took off his glove to scoop the ring up in his hand. He studied it for a moment, then fumbled it into the pouch at his waist, securing it well. Giving Fenris a sidelong glance, he asked, “What about you?”

Fenris clenched his jaw, but had to loosen it to answer. “What about me?”

“What…will you do now?” Carver asked slowly.

“He asked me to stay with you,” Fenris said, taking up Rafe’s letter once more and carefully refolding it, then folded it in another half to tuck into his own belt pouch along with the medallion. He would have to find a strip of leather for it, he mentally noted, trivialities to shy away from what he didn’t want to think about. “I’d like you to come with me.”

“Where?” Carver asked, puzzled.

“Back to Orlais. Bring your men if you’d like. Varric said,”--he couldn’t say his name, not yet,--“he was _probably_ dead, but he doesn’t know for sure. Let’s try to find out for sure.”

“Fenris…” Carver began, but cut off at the blazing glare Fenris shot him. He put his hands up placatingly. “Okay. We’ll try. Then what?”

“Then?” Fenris echoed, and his mind whirled. He should have been there with Rafe. _Would_ have been there, if it hadn’t been for one particular person. His eyes narrowed, and old, familiar hate boiled up with a new face and name: _Dorian Pavus_. “Then we hunt Tevinter mages.”


End file.
